


Tulips and Butterfly Wings

by MelayneSeahawk



Series: Ineffable Wives Fics [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (a tiny bit), Ace-Friendly Romantic Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barong Tagalog, Book Elements, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/F, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Filipino Fashion, Filipino Setting, Genderweird Crowley, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, I wouldn't call it crossdressing per se but I'm playing with gendered presentation a bit, Ineffable Wives Exchange, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Language of Flowers, Maria Clara gown, Secret Admirer, Show Elements, historical setting, references to Noli Me Tangere (novel), references to Philippine Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: Aziraphale is in the Philippines on Heaven's orders, and someone is sending her bouquets full of meaning
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Wives Fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543756
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	Tulips and Butterfly Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petalprose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/gifts).



> This is an Ineffable Wives Exchange pinch hit (sorry for the delay!) for petalprose, who requested "flower language; masquerade; Aziraphale in a [Maria Clara gown](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Clara_gown)"
> 
> Endnote has more references, for those who might be interested. Many, _many_ thanks to ranichi17 for helping me get the Filipino history and culture details when my research wasn't enough; all remaining mistakes are all on me.
> 
> self-betaed, un-Britpicked, we Fall like Crowley

**Manila, The Philippines, 1897**

"Doña Fell, Doña Fell, another bouquet came for you!" Rosamie called from the foyer, and Aziraphale looked up from her books, torn between exasperation at the interruption and that little bit of excitement she felt every time one of the bouquets arrived at her door. She had been in the Philippines for about six months at this point, working with a mixed group of local friars and patricians on opening a series of new schools for the “disadvantaged” in Manila at the behest of Heaven, and the bouquets had begun arriving mere weeks after she had settled in this  _ casa _ on the town's outskirts. They never contained a note, or any indication of who had sent them, and while floriography was no longer as popular in England as it once was, Aziraphale was certain the choice of flowers contained hidden meaning.

The first bouquet had been made up of an odd selection of blooms: purple irises (“a message”), red carnations (“my heart aches for you”) and tulips (“passion”), and white and yellow gardenias (“secret love”). The mix of flowers was unusual, and had driven Aziraphale to pull out an old language of flowers guide to translate them, unsure of who might have sent them. She was already very popular among the upper crust in Manila, due more to angelic influence than any particular skill at socializing, she thought, but she did not think she was  _ so _ popular as to have already acquired a secret admirer, despite what the bouquet would indicate. But the blossoms were pretty, and gardenias did have a lovely smell, so she put them in a vase in the foyer, where they stayed long past when they should have wilted.

She received a new bouquet every few weeks, just as the little bit of magic she used to maintain the flowers would begin to fade. Most of the flower choices made sense, even if the combinations were strange: dwarf sunflowers for adoration and yarrow for everlasting love, violets for loyalty and devotion, heliotropes for eternal love. Others were somewhat unexpected, emphasizing elements Aziraphale wouldn't associate with affection from someone one had just met: sage for immortality, chamomile and wallflower for patience and faithfulness in adversity.

(She knew who she  _ wanted _ the flowers to be from, of course, but the demon was likely thousands of miles away, still in London for all Aziraphale knew, and they hadn’t spoken in some twenty years, not since the Incident when Crowley asked for holy water.)

This most recent bouquet was another interesting one, made up of pink and red camellias and blue salvias. The camellias spoke of passion -- “longing for you” and “you're the flame in my heart” -- the salvias also reinforced the message of “I think of you”. But what made this bouquet different was a note, in a blocky handwriting she didn't recognize: “I will see you soon”. A single red tulip, a strong symbol meaning “a declaration of love”, stood out in the center of the bouquet. Aziraphale was unsure where the person had even managed to get the flowers, since some were hard or even impossible to find on the islands.

"Was there any other post?" Aziraphale asked, and Rosamie nodded.

"Yes, ma'am, I was about to tell you," she replied, handing Aziraphale an envelope made of thick, expensive paper. "It is an invitation to a ball at Don Ernesto's  _ hacienda _ . With costumes, like they do in the great cities in Europe!"

"Mm, a masquerade would be a good place to meet a secret admirer," Aziraphale said, removing the invitation from the envelope and looking over it quickly. She knew Don Ernesto had been educated in Spain, and liked to show off to his friends by copying Continental styles, and the party described seemed like an Italian carnival, especially considering the timing -- just before the beginning of Lent. "Well," she said, slipping the invitation back into the envelope and turning to her grinning maid. "I suppose I shall have to have a mask made." Rosamie clapped excitedly, and Aziraphale allowed the young woman's enthusiasm to spur her own. Now, to decide what to wear.

***

The upcoming masquerade was all anyone wanted to talk about among the nobles Aziraphale circulated amongst on her mission in Manila. Normally, Aziraphale would have found such talk dull, but the chance that she might meet whoever had been sending the flowers was most certainly cause for excitement, so she was happy to engage in the gossip about costumes and who might dance with whom with the others, as long as they also got  _ some _ amount of work done.

Time passed quickly, and soon enough it was the day of the ball. Aziraphale's maid helped her dress in her costume, and then she took a carriage to Don Ernesto’s  _ hacienda _ , disembarking with the others and waiting in line to be announced. “Doña Anna Fell!” and she entered the ballroom, looking around at the gathered gentry of Manila.

Aziraphale’s outfit, called a Maria Clara gown after a character in a popular book from a decade before, was at the height of Filipino fashion, though her choice to wear all white stood out among the bright colors worn by others. The outfit was made up of four parts: a  _ camisa _ blouse, with its low neck and puffy, “butterfly” sleeves, richly embroidered with gold thread; a  _ panuelo _ scarf over top, fastened in the front with gold pins for modesty; a full, rounded sheer skirt called a  _ saya _ ; and a  _ tapis _ overskirt in white, gold, and just a hint of blue. Her mask was similarly patterned in white, gold, and blue; if anyone asked, she was an angel (her own idea of a joke).

Music drifted across the space from an unseen group of musicians, and tables piled high with food were scattered about the ballroom; the centerpiece was a dessert table containing both local and European sweets, including a towering croquembouche, profiteroles piled into a cone and held in place with spun sugar and caramel. Aziraphale knew she’d find her way over to those treats eventually, but made an effort to greet her various friends and contacts as she made her way to a corner where she could watch the proceedings without having to be in the middle of things. Perhaps this was not the best way to encourage her admirer to find her, but big parties like this always made her nervous.

“You’re not going to blend in dressed like that, angel,” a familiar voice said, and Aziraphale spun to see Crowley standing beside her, the demon as dashing as ever. She was dressed in a masculine style, a  _ barong tagalog _ in dark colors with a hint of red in the embroidery, made of fine, sheer  _ nipis _ fabric over an undershirt and belted trousers. Her mask was similarly black, with a hint of red, horns jutting from the forehead, eyes still hidden by dark lenses built into the mask.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, knowing she should be more subtle in her appreciation of her Adversary, but unable to contain herself. The open neck of the  _ barong _ showed a daring flash of pale skin at the base of her throat, and Aziraphale ruthlessly shoved down the urge to press a kiss there. “I thought you were in London.”

“You know I like to get around,” Crowley said, a laugh audible in her voice. “I’m working with some of the pro-independence groups around the islands,” she added quietly.

“That’s not exactly evil, is it?” Aziraphale asked. “Colonial governments are…generally far from ideal.”

“Chaos and instability serves Hell,” Crowley replied, but there was a shiftiness to her posture that Aziraphale recognized; she was using this as an excuse to do good, like she sometimes did, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to call her on it, it would only start an argument she didn’t want to have. They lapsed into companionable silence for a moment, then, “Dance with me,” the demon said, as the musicians finished one piece of music and began another.

“People will see,” Aziraphale said, torn between nervousness and desire.

“Not if we don’t want them to,” Crowley said, with a click of her long fingers. She held out her other hand, offering but not forcing, and Aziraphale looked at it for a moment before nodding her head firmly and taking it, fingers tingling slightly where their skin touched.

Crowley led her out into the area where other couples were dancing, then tugged her close, into the frankly scandalous (to Aziraphale, at least) position for a waltz. Neither of them were terribly skilled dancers, but being wrapped up in Crowley’s strong, slim arms was like being in Eden again, basking in the light of Earth’s young sun, a world of possibility around them. For once, Aziraphale let her anxieties fade away, and focused on being in the moment. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, taking in the dry tinder and cinnamon scent of the demon who led her somewhat clumsily around the dance floor.

All too soon, the music ended, changing into a much faster mazurka, and they vacated the floor to allow the others to keep dancing. Crowley looked like she was about to say something but then stopped, spotting someone on the other side of the room. “Sorry, angel, I have to go,” she said, regret clear in her voice. She bowed to Aziraphale with a flourish, pressed something into her hand, and then took off, disappearing into the crowd. Aziraphale sighed and looked down at the small bundle of cloth Crowley had pressed into her hand. She unfolded it delicately, unsure what she’d find.

The thin fabric fell away to reveal a single red tulip blossom. A declaration of love. Aziraphale gasped and looked up, searching the room, but neither her mortal eyes nor her celestial senses could tell her where the demon had gone.

***

Aziraphale stayed at the masquerade far longer than she would have preferred, hoping Crowley would find her again, or that she might spot the demon among the crowd, but to no avail. Disappointed, she joined the line of stragglers to wait for her carriage, continuing home in silence. She had rewrapped the tulip and tucked it between her  _ panuelo _ and  _ camisa _ , over where her heart usually sat, and she rested her hand over it on her way back to her  _ casa _ , thoughts spinning. Crowley  _ had _ to be the one sending her the flowers over the past weeks, and she had to know what they meant. But that would mean…

Rosamie had gone to bed by the time Aziraphale returned home, so she moved silently through the house to her bedroom, banishing her fancy clothes to hang in the armoire and changing them for a simple nightgown with a somewhat-frivolous miracle. She sat down at her vanity to take down her hair (for some reason, attempting to miracle it always made it frizz), pressing one fingertip to the velvety petals of the tulip, which now sat next to the bottle of her favorite perfume, a scent that reminded her of Crowley.

“I see you kept it,” Crowley’s voice came from behind her, and she spun around, to see the demon lurking in the shadows in the corner of the dimly-lit room. She’d abandoned the mask and  _ baro _ overshirt, and without glasses to hide them, her golden eyes were luminous in the dark.

“Of course I did,” Aziraphale said, before she could think to protest the impropriety of Crowley being in her room at night. “You sent me those bouquets, didn’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Crowley said, with a flourishing bow. She stepped forward into the light, stalking forward until she stood just beside where Aziraphale sat at her vanity. She gently urged the angel to face forward, then her nimble fingers made quick work of the pins holding her hair in place. “I meant every word. Well, every message, I suppose.”

“Floriography can be unclear at times,” Aziraphale said, restraining a shiver as Crowley’s fingers scratched lightly against her scalp. Crowley leaned forward, chest pressing against Aziraphale’s shoulder as she reached for a comb, and Aziraphale bit her lip. The demon was so  _ warm _ , even through the thin fabric of their clothes. “Why do something now?” she added quietly.

Crowley shook her head, focusing on the task of combing out Aziraphale’s long tresses, before braiding them loosely for sleep; not that Aziraphale slept, but she appreciated the gesture. “You have to understand, angel,” she said finally, and Aziraphale met her eyes in the mirror. “You were so angry with me, and then we didn’t speak for so long. I had to do  _ something _ .”

Aziraphale felt her shoulders sag. “So you were just trying to get my attention,” she said, disappointment heavy in her voice despite attempting to hide it. She couldn’t feel this way, not about a demon, not about her best friend, and it seemed those feelings weren’t returned anyway.

“No! Urk, I’m saying this all wrong,” Crowley said, shaking her head angrily, fingers tangling in the end of Aziraphale’s braid and tugging slightly. “I don’t want the holy water for a...a suicide plan, or whatever you’ve convinced yourself of. It’s a safeguard against -- my  _ employers _ , if they ever figure out what we’ve been up to, or how I feel about you.” Aziraphale’s confusion must have been clear on her face, because Crowley added, “I love you, you ridiculous creature, probably have since you gave away that blasted sword, and I don’t want to have to hide it any longer.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pressing her hands together over where her heart likely resided. “But what about Heaven? Or Hell, for that matter?” She could feel Crowley withdrawing, both physically and in the slight psychic space shared by all celestial beings, and she turned just enough to grab Crowley’s hands in her own. “I love you, too, my darling, but I’m afraid.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Crowley said firmly. She tugged Aziraphale to her feet by their linked hands and into an embrace, and Aziraphale practically melted into her arms. “We can finish up our work here and go home, come up with something along the way.”

Aziraphale nodded, tangling her fingers in Crowley’s  _ camisón _ , and then suddenly they were kissing, something Aziraphale had been imagining for far longer than she’d be willing to admit. Crowley’s lips were soft against her own, Hellfire hot, and when she wrapped her slim arms around Aziraphale’s thick middle, it was like coming home in a way she’d never felt before. Not having to breathe came in handy, it turned out, and they traded long kisses with barely any pauses, until the sky began to lighten and the room filled with the rosy glow of dawn.

“I should probably go before your maid wakes,” Crowley said reluctantly, after drawing back only as far as Aziraphale’s hands tangled in the front of her shirt would allow. “Won’t do to have a strange woman in the doña’s bedroom, would it?”

Aziraphale slapped her arm playfully, but let her go as Crowley stepped back, smoothing the front of her  _ camisón _ and running a hand through her hair, not that it helped in the slightest. “I’ll see you soon, angel,” she said, voice a little husky, and then she disappeared, leaving nothing but the scent of cinnamon, and the blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks, behind.

**Author's Note:**

> The Maria Clara gown (it's got lots of names, including Filipiniana dress) is a style of dress with [a long history](https://www.shopsinta.co/blogs/wedding-blog/filipiniana-dresses-and-how-they-ve-changed-throughout-history) in the Philippines. In the period of time when this fic takes place (just before the Philippine Revolution against Spain and just before the Philippine-American War), the Maria Clara gown was actually an outfit made of four separate pieces, as described in the fic, with distinctive "butterfly wing" sleeves. The name "Maria Clara" comes from the name of the protagonist's love interest in [Noli Me Tángere](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noli_Me_T%C3%A1ngere_\(novel\)), a novel written in 1887 and considered to be a national epic, which is still required reading in Filipino schools to this day. María Clara herself was considered to be a shining example of a traditional, feminine ideal of Filipino womanhood: beautiful, demure, humble, and devout. While her value as a role model for _modern_ Filipino women is debated (particularly due to some of her "virtues" being more Spanish than Pinoy), but her position as a cultural icon is not.
> 
> Crowley is wearing a [, one of the masculine styles of national dress from the Philippines, which blends elements from both pre-colonial Filipino and post-colonial Spanish clothing. There is a feminine equivalent -- the baro't saya -- but I figure Crowley plays around with presentation whenever possible. There were lots of different floriography guides at the height of its popularity in the UK and Europe, and many contradicted each other, or listed multiple meanings for the same flower; I used ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barong_tagalog)[this more modern list](https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers) for this fic.
> 
> A note on the usage of "Filipino": unlike Spanish and many other languages, Filipino does not have gender-specific pronouns. While it's popular in the US to use Filipina/Pinay for female Filipinos, and Filipinx (similar to Latinx) has been floated as a gender-inclusive term, the whole situation is very complicated. Here are [two](https://www.cnn.ph/life/culture/2020/6/29/filipinx-gender-neutral.html) [articles](https://interaksyon.philstar.com/trends-spotlights/2020/06/24/171420/is-filipinx-a-correct-term-to-use-debate-for-gender-neutral-term-for-filipino-sparked-anew/) on the subject, and many thanks again to ranichi17 for all the help, and for gently bapping me on the head when needed.
> 
> [reblog link](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/post/636606011845820416/tulips-and-butterfly-wings-melayneseahawk-good)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/)!


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